


Let Them Watch

by emdaro



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Trans Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 15:57:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12062280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emdaro/pseuds/emdaro
Summary: “Art,” Mr. Denton told Jack, “is being willing to bleed and let others watch.”





	Let Them Watch

Art had always been Jack’s escape. The feeling of paper beneath his hands, watching his feelings come to life on the page in front of him. Swirling colors together, putting them onto the canvas. It was a comfort, a way to express the things that had happened to him when he was young.

Jack hadn’t always been called Jack. When he was young, he had been called a different name, a wrong name. He had felt wrong too. His mom had made it better. She didn’t care what he wanted to be called. She called him Jack and she loved him so much, giving him crayons to express himself. Everything changed when she died. Suddenly he was Jessica again and his mommy was gone. He felt wrong again. The dresses his foster families forced him into, the name they called him, the pronouns they used, it was all wrong and horrible. He lashed out, he was angry at the world. There was one family that was worse than the others. They were sugary sweet when his social worker was around, but when she left they were horrible. They made him go to ‘counseling’ which was really just their pastor telling Jack that if he didn’t stop pretending he was a boy, he would go to Hell. They forced him to wear dresses and skirts every day. The worst thing they did, however, was take away his art. He wasn’t allowed anything that could write in his room. If he had homework, he had to do it sitting at the kitchen table. He turned to unhealthy ways of coping. The scars that remained on his arms and legs were evidence of this. When his social worker found out, she went ballistic. She got Jack out of that house and he was placed in a new home, his forever home.

Medda’s house was so different. The first day he arrived, he knew that within minutes of walking through the door. Jack had his own room, to start. His desk was the highlight. It had art supplies on it. Not a ton, just colored pencils and charcoal. But it was so much more than he had been able to have in years. He started high school and he was able to enroll in Drawing and Painting. It was life changing. His teacher was amazing, he encouraged Jack in everything he did. He pushed him to become a better artist. When Jack set his sights on the Rhode Island School of Design, he half expected his teacher to laugh at him. Instead, he helped Jack develop his portfolio.

“Art,” Mr. Denton told Jack, “is being willing to bleed and let others watch.”

Jack took those words to heart. He drew what had happened to him all those years ago, reopening wounds that had scabbed over long ago. He drew faint memories of his mother, based on the few pictures he had left of her. He drew his world during the time he hadn’t been able to draw. He was accepted on a full scholarship. Those four years changed Jack. He saw art differently after it and he did art differently. He could see more than just the shapes and lines that made up a piece. He could see the unbridled emotion, the pain, the joy that went into each piece. His emotions fueled his art, pushing him to do better, to share in an intimate with people what had happened to him. That didn’t pan out as a career at first. He had no idea what to do with his degree after he graduated. He did political cartoons for an online magazine, took commissions online, and worked other odd jobs. The starving artist was a reality for him, there were many days when all he could have to eat was a package of ramen. When a gallery contacted him about showcasing his pieces, he was floored. A professor had recommended him. So he had gotten to work. He only had half the amount of drawings he needed and only a quarter of the paintings. His first opening was nothing less than a success. He sold all his paintings and nearly all his drawings. After that, it snowballed. More galleries wanted to show his work and more people wanted to buy it. He was a success, in almost everyone’s eyes. He didn’t have to work odd jobs to make ends meet, he moved into a better apartment, he didn’t have to worry about going hungry.

It was four years after he graduated college that Jack’s life turned upside down. It was a gallery opening, full of stuffy people that Jack couldn’t stand. He had to wear a suit, which made him uncomfortable. He was never good at this side of things. His studio, in paint covered clothes, that’s where he shined. He stood in the corner, nursing some drink probably worth more than Jack’s entire outfit. He went back out to mingle after a moment, tugging on his tie gently.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you. People will think you don’t belong.” A voice said behind him, light and teasing.

Jack turned, searching for the source. His eyes landed on a sandy haired man that looked to be around the same age as him, dressed far too casually to be a guest. He was wearing a grey blazer with a white t shirt underneath, along with jeans and a pair of converse. Jack noticed the camera, then the press badge around his neck. A photographer. “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I snuck in.”

The man laughed. “Considering that your signature is on the corner of all the paintings, I highly doubt it.” He held his hand out. “Charlie Morris, but you can call me Crutchie.” It was only then that Jack noticed the silver crutch tucked under his arm. The man- Crutchie- grinned. “You’re wondering if it’s demeaning. Yes, but it’s better than having people call me it behind my back.”

Jack nodded slowly. “Makes sense. How did you recognize me, Crutchie?”

Crutchie shrugged. “I’ve been to a couple of your gallery openings before. I’m a fan.”

Jack nodded again and glanced at the time. There was still an hour and a half before he got to make his exit. He looked around the room, observing the people. Most were rich, boring snobs only there because they wanted to appear cultured. There was the occasional college student, some obviously forced there by a professor but also some who looked genuinely interested in the art. It was always an interesting blend of people at these things, people from totally separate worlds colliding over one common thing. He heard the click of a camera and turned back to Crutchie.

Crutchie shrugged. “Sorry, it’s my job. My editor would kill me if I didn’t come back with at least one good shot of you, considering I’ve been to three of your openings and gotten none.”

Jack nodded again, taking a sip of his drink. “No worries.” He sat down on one of the benches, patting the space beside him. “Want to interview me too?”

Crutchie sat down, shaking his head with a laugh. “No, not that type of reporter. I’d rather capture the moment in a picture than in words.”

Jack looked over. “That’s…oddly beautiful.”

Crutchie grinned. “I’ve got a knack for oddly beautiful.” He snapped a picture of the crowd gathered in front of one painting. It was one of Jack’s favorites. It depicted the sun setting over the city of Santa Fe. Jack had traveled there the previous year and loved it. The air felt cleaner, the people were friendly. It was so different from New York, with its constant hustle and bustle. He loved the city but he often wondered what it would be like to live somewhere else, somewhere calm. The rest of the night passed much like that, Jack and Crutchie making idle chatter while Crutchie took pictures of the art, the people, and Jack. At the end of the night, Jack felt slightly disappointed. Usually he tried to sneak out early but he stayed until the end, Crutchie making the time pass quickly.

“Thanks. Tonight was actually fun.” Jack said as they collected their coats. “Crutchie…can I get your number? Maybe we could get a cup of coffee or something.”

Crutchie grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.” They exchanged numbers and went their separate ways. That night, Jack began a new piece. It was a depiction of two men standing close together, all while a crowd swirled around them.

One coffee date turned into two and then three and then they turned into dinner dates until finally, almost two months later, Jack asked Crutchie to be his boyfriend. They were laying on Jack’s couch one night, Jack nearly asleep. Crutchie was staring at his laptop, looking at something quite intently. Jack didn’t know what. His head was pillowed against Crutchie’s chest, curled between the other man’s legs.

“Jack?” Crutchie’s voice broke the silence, one hand stroking through Jack’s dark hair gently. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm…” Jack mumbled, pressing his lips to Crutchie’s neck.

“I…I’m looking at your paintings.” Crutchie bit his lip. “Why are some of them so…dark?”

Jack sat up then, looking at Crutchie’s laptop. One of his older paintings was on the screen. A young boy, trying to climb out of a hole while dark hands pulled him down. He winced slightly. He hadn’t told Crutchie anything about his past, not really. He knew Jack was adopted and that he was transgender, but that was the extent of it. Jack took a deep breath, trying to figure out how much he should say.

“Someone told me once that to create true art you must be willing to bleed and let others watch. I…I was four when my mom died.” Jack began. “She was a good mom, Crutchie. She didn’t care when I said I was a boy, she encouraged me even. She called me Jack. She loved me. When she died, I was too young to really understand. I just knew that she was gone and I had to live with other people. People who weren’t as nice about things. They called me Jessica and made me wear dresses and stuff. That was most of my foster families, I went through quite a few. The worst was when I was twelve. They…They made me go to therapy, which was just their stupid pastor telling me that if I didn’t stop my ‘sinning ways’ I’d go to Hell. They made me go to their church every Sunday and I had to wear dresses and skirts to school every day. The mom did my hair with these stupid bows and she put makeup on me. They…They took away my art. I wasn’t even allowed to doodle. If I did, I was grounded for a week. They thought that art was driving me away from God. So…I started hurting myself. That went on for about a year. My social worker found out and she got me out. That’s when I went to live with Mom.” His voice was shaking slightly, he had sat up fully and his head was bent, staring at the ground with his hands clasped in front of him. It was easier than looking at Crutchie.

“When I started school after I went to live with Mom, I got to take art classes. The art teacher was amazing. Mr. Denton. He cared about me. He’s the entire reason I kept doing art, he’s the reason I got into school. Without him, I wouldn’t be who I am today. He’s the one who told me that I had to use my pain in my art. That’s why some of my stuff is so dark. That pain, I…I have to try and expose it. Every time I draw or paint or anything, I have to try.” Tears were swimming in his eyes, he tried to hold them back.

Crutchie was silent for a moment. He slowly set his laptop on the coffee table, then wrapped his arms around Jack. “Jack…”

“I’m sorry.” Jack mumbled. He pulled away and wiped his eyes. “I shouldn’t have laid all that on you.”

“Jack, I’m your boyfriend. I’ve laid plenty on you.” Crutchie brought his hand up and wiped Jack’s eyes carefully. “That’s what I’m here for.” He kissed Jack softly then, pulling him closer. “I love you.”

Jack froze. They had been dating for three months and hadn’t yet said those words. Jack knew though that he loved Crutchie. On a certain level he thought that maybe he had fallen in love with Crutchie that first night, at the gallery opening. “I love you too.” He murmured, turning and kissing Crutchie more firmly. He clung to Crutchie, the only person he had expressed to in words everything that he tried to say in his art.

Over the next year, art critics and fans would debate a change in Jack Kelly’s style. It was lighter, happier. The colors were more vibrant. It was a subtle shift, something that happened over a long period of time. Most people liked it, some didn’t. They all agreed that Jack’s change seemed centered on a person, a blonde man who featured in his sketches and paintings often.


End file.
